


An Eventful Evening

by Guanin



Series: Truths Spoken In the Dark [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Gap Filler, Grief, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: Oswald runs into Jim one night. Or, rather, Jim runs into him. Literally.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about three months after the season 2 finale.

It was not supposed to be an eventful evening. Although, of course, one must expect the unexpected, especially in his line of work. So he wasn’t too rattled when a man suddenly exited a bar door he was passing and crashed into him, except for his hand tightening on his walking stick as his right instinctively sough a knife in his pocket. That is, until the man stepped back a pace and turned around.

“Jim,” Oswald gasped, hand curling around the stick in a painful grip.

Fury and hurt and the roaring urge to yell boiled inside him. Jim blinked at him, bleary eyed, skin flushed, mouth slightly open.

“Oswald,” he said, voice slurred, eyes widening. “Shit.”

“Hello, Jim.” Oswald’s voice strained against a furious smile. “I can’t say I’m enthused to see you, either.”

That was a lie. Despite the anger simmering under his skin, his heart had squeezed in that familiar jolt that it always did any time that he was near Jim, treacherous thing.

“I wasn’t… Fuck.”

Jim rubbed his forehead, shutting his eyes as if they pained him, then bent over, expelling the contents of his stomach all over the sidewalk. Oswald flinched in horror as vomit splattered his shoes and pants. Jim didn’t. He hadn’t. These shoes were brand new! Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he hurried to wipe the disgusting substance off his shoes. 

“Didn’t mean to do that,” Jim murmured, still curled over.

Right. Just like he probably hadn’t meant to leave him in Arkham or completely ignore his presence since he had gotten out. It had just happened like that because of reasons like being self-righteous and only looking out for his own skin and blah blah blah.

“Sorry.”

Oswald ceased wiping. 

“What did you say?” he asked, straightening. 

Jim pushed himself semi-upright, cleaning his mouth with a napkin. 

“Did you just apologize to me?” Oswald continued, gaping at Jim.

Jim grimaced. Was it because of his upset stomach or because he realized what he had just said?

“Yeah.”

“For what exactly?”

Jim gestured at Oswald vaguely with his hand.

“That explains nothing,” Oswald said, flushing with anger again. “You already said it, now say what you meant by it.”

Jim looked around, then stepped away to lean against a bike rack, looking like he might throw up again.

“The shoes,” he groaned. “And, well, the other thing.”

“What other thing? I recall several oth—“

“Arkham, okay. I’m sorry about… that. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”

Oswald frowned, flustered. Jim had just apologized to him. An actual apology had just left Jim’s mouth intended for him. Oswald’s mouth moved, but no words came out.

“Yes,” he squeezed out once he regained the power of speech.

“There. That settles it, right?”

What?

“No, that doesn’t settle it. You left me at the hands of a maniac.”

Jim pressed his hand to his face, looking like he was going to keel over, but Oswald didn’t care. 

“I begged you to get me out of there and you ignored me.”

“And I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know what Strange was like yet.”

Jim had said it again. Sorry. He would never be saying such if he were sober. Did it really count? Yet intoxication often revealed one’s true feelings. And Jim, as closed off and proud as he was, wasn’t the type to plead guilty when he didn’t mean it, even while drunk out of his mind. He truly felt regretful over how he had treated Oswald. Oh. A pressure in his chest lightened, yet deepened at the same time. But would Jim ever admit to this when sober? Did it matter if Jim just buried his regret and pushed him away again?

Jim groaned, tipping forward. His hip left the bike rack. 

Shit! 

Oswald rushed forward, clenching his teeth as he caught Jim’s full weight on his right side, sending a shock of pain up his right leg. 

“Jim. Jim!”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t you dare pass out on me. Hey!”

He slapped the side of Jim’s face, which lied on his shoulder.

“Ow.”

“Sure. You’re in pain. My leg is flaring up here.”

A sharp ache burned in his right thigh from the unwelcome weight it was being forced to hold.

“Sorry.”

Again?! What the hell was happening? 

“Stop saying that and lean against the bike rack again.”

“I thought you wanted me to apogize. Apolize… Say sorry.”

“You’ve said it enough for now. Move over.”

He leaned Jim back so that he half sat on the rack, then slowly turned, keeping a firm grip on Jim’s right arm as he did so, until he had a good hold on Jim’s shoulders. Which resulted in him being quite close to Jim’s face. Although it would be far more appealing if nausea and misery didn’t suffuse every bit of it. Jim didn’t look at him, his gaze unfocused beyond Oswald’s shoulder, mouth tight and drawn. Worry surged through Oswald. He recognized this. Jim hadn’t just had one too many. He had sought to drown out his demons by drowning himself. 

“Let’s get you home, shall we?” Oswald said, less sharply. 

Hailing a cab sure was fun. After a couple of fruitless attempts due to a very inconveniently parked SUV blocking them from view, he had ordered Jim to stay upright and rushed into the street to flag one down, rushing back just in time to keep Jim from oozing onto the sidewalk. It would have been a lot more convenient to call one of his men, but he was reluctant to let them see Jim like this. Butch muttered enough about Oswald’s “obsession” with Jim as it was. As if Oswald’s fixation was any more deplorable than Butch’s endless mopping over that piece of human excrement Tabitha. Still. This was a personal matter.

The cab ride was blessedly brief. Jim lived only a four minute ride away, which made sense. The most sensible thing was to choose a local bar to get drunk in. Oswald kept poking him to prevent him from falling asleep, for Jim had collapsed against the seat with his eyes closed as soon as he had gotten in. Jim protested, swatting at his hand. Oswald rolled his eyes. 

They exited the cab in front of medium sized apartment building.

“I can go in on my own,” Jim said as Oswald got out with him.

Oswald fixed him with a sharp glance. Jim was leaning hard against the car, bent over slightly, looking no more readily mobile than he had when he had fallen over earlier.

“If I leave you, you’re going to spend the night on the sidewalk.” He shut the door and the cab took off. “So you’re going to let me take you upstairs.”

Jim scowled at him. 

“I don’t take orders from you,” he said, and started walking toward the building.

Four steps in, he lurched to the left side. Oswald swept over to him, grabbing his right arm before he could keep tipping over and draped it over his shoulder.

“Quit protesting and let me help you. The sooner we get you inside, the sooner you can pass out and I can go about my business.”

Yet he forgot all about his business the minute he set foot in the Jim’s apartment, for he was too busy looking around in horror at the shambles before him. Every available surface was covered in something. Dirty clothes, empty food cartons, newspaper clippings, random weaponry, case notes, potato chip crumbs. A peek into the squalid looking kitchen revealed an alarming number of liquor bottles on the counter beside the stove. None of it appeared to have been cleaned recently. This was no fit place for Jim to live in. He could do better than this little hole with the bounties he was bringing in. Yet there was a rather alarming familiarity to the unkempt scene. Memories he still strove to push through. Days lost in a haze of alcohol, grief, and a crushing inability to pin down who Oswald Cobblepot was anymore after two parents and his very sense of self had been ripped from him. Jim had suffered recent loss, too. Lee had lost their baby. Jim had been in prison at the time. This reckless lack of self-care indicated that Jim and her had not reconciled after he was cleared.

Jim detached himself and stumbled along across the living room toward a small room to the side. Oswald caught a glimpse of a sink before Jim shut the door. Oswald watched the door, a mournful sadness overtaking him. Pushing aside a sweatshirt, he sank on the couch, contemplating the scene before him. 

A while later, the bathroom door opened. Oswald turned toward Jim, who regarded him with a confused frown, still holding the door knob. He probably needed the support. His hair was slightly wet and his eyes a little more focused.

“I thought you’d left,” Jim said. 

Oswald fiddled with the walking stick between his hands. Why was he still here? Jim had been safely delivered to his home, sad as it was. There was no reason for him to linger. 

“Yes. I wanted to make sure you were alright. Given the state of things.”

Jim stared wordlessly at him. Right. Oswald hadn’t been expecting a thank you. The apology had been shocking enough. As was the fact that Jim wasn’t kicking him out of his apartment despite protesting his coming here. 

“I was sorry to hear about the baby,” he continued. 

It was only proper to give his condolences, even if Jim might not want to hear them from him. Jim lowered his eyes, fingers tightening on the door.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

Oswald’s throat squeezed a fraction.

“Thank you.”

They stood for a few moments in silence, neither looking at the other.

“I’m going to bed before my knees give way,” Jim said, staggering toward the next room over.

“Of course.”

Jim slipped inside the room, not bothering to turn on the light. A moment later, Oswald heard the sound of his body hitting the mattress. 

Well. That was that. Ingrained politeness compelled him to call out, “good night”, despite having no expectation of it being returned, and indeed, Jim’s only reply was a muttered grunt. Making sure that the door was locked from the inside, Oswald let himself out.


End file.
